World War Cubbins
by Zero'sOnlyDragon
Summary: "My Florence was right. I should have just went to the store and forgotten about the war instead of acting like a hero. Nothing good will come of all of this fighting and accusing the other of petty war crimes." In which the Medic, George Cubbins, goes to war and writes about his experiences. rated for imaging and bloody depictions. Lockwood and Co World War ll AU Flubbins Locklyle
1. Chapter 1

November 8, 1914

I have not even been in these godforsaken labyrinths of mud for more than a week and a half and, already, I am growing very tired of them. Day in and day out, more soldiers rush into the front lines as others are struck down during the battle, unable to return home. I have already treated more wounded than I had on a yearly basis back in Portsmouth. For a man with a medical degree, who does not enjoy boasting about his cases, that is saying much about what I am dealing with here.

We joined the war not even a month ago after a German invasion of Belgium. I have to say, I don't think I had seen anyone, the day the news came out, that wasn't absolutely appalled or angered by German behavior. Belgium had no qualms with them, they were to be left alone. However, the German forces had another plan, to flank France and catch it unawares before they could mobilize their troops. The Schlieffen Plan. Sadly, as they marched through Belgium and left a trail of scarlet behind them, word got out and the French met the Germans at the Marne river. I suppose the news of this lit a fire under the bellies of our English leaders and, hoping it would end fast with our amalgamation into the allies, declared war upon Germany and along with French and Russian forces.

This European war is beginning to boil over. I am starting to wonder how long it is going to be before another thing else starts smelling rotten in the state of Denmark.

The men that have been here, since the very beginning (though there are not many), hardly ever sleep. Anytime they do, screams can be heard from deep within the trenches. Their nightmares succeed in keeping them vigilant but also ruining every chance when they can rest. They pace, fingers on the triggers of their gun, waiting for the time we come under fire. Paranoia is rising on the front line here. The trainees look so excited it is almost unnerving. It's sad that those smiles won't last long after their first fusillade against Germany. Poor unfortunate kids having their lives ripped from them, and while they are still alive no less.

I am glad I became a medicinal doctor rather than a surgeon. My left hand hasn't stopped shaking since my first bout with German fire the day I was dropped off. Even while I treat the soldiers, knowing I am in the safest place I can be for miles, I have to hide my vibrating limb in my coat pocket. I wonder how long I will be able to keep it hidden before my superior notices…

Now that I write, I am also glad I never thought of becoming a soldier.

My Florence was right. I should have just went to the store and forgotten about the war instead of acting like a hero. Nothing good will come of all of this fighting and accusing the other of petty war crimes. At least I followed her advice and decided to keep a personal journal rather than just my diagnostic book. It helps to write out what is running through my mind as she told me when she handed me this leather-bound notebook and a pencil.

I do hope she will forgive me when I return to her.

More inevitably to come,

George Cubbins

* * *

May 21, 1915

I am in shock currently with the information I have received to-day. I was able to get over the Mustard gas attacks and am striving to help the soldiers (More on that after). With the trench foot cases, it has become a bit more manageable due to the warmer weather (more on that a later as well). However, the event that is causing me a bit of unsolicited thought, was the sinking of a United States ship.

At first, I thought that the lie-factory was at it again, creating more propaganda that moved so much faster than one can interview a person. Yet as the news began to wave amongst the men, and my superiors made no move to deny it, I began to doubt my previous assumptions. The Listomania was torpedoed by German submarines about a two to three weeks ago. Sadly, the news is rather slow these days.

Then again, If it wasn't for my constant writings, I would forget what day it is all together. Every day here is like a lifetime served under the constant rounds of gunfire and bombs. The screams of soldiers as they hit the ground of No Man's Land. We cannot give the bodies proper burials. Some we can't even retrieve least we die ourselves. Half of the men we take back have no I.D. or anything on their person except maybe a picture of loved ones they left: for a chance to fight for a better life. They left to die, for a better life.

I need to get on with the rest, instead of feeling bitter. It will solve nothing, in the end, except maybe return a sliver of my fleeting sanity.

Anyhow, I must say that the mustard gas has proven to be rather troublesome. Many men have died from leftover bombs in the German trenches. Any new trenches we dig now are jagged and going every which way. According to ballistics, the explosions will cover less distance the more the fires have to hit a solid surface, slowing down the blast's momentum. While I am unsure whether this works with the German gas as it does with bombs, I am sure that the gas is a very lethal problem our front is dealing with. Any German body we come across lately all have gas masks on. The men's guards remain high when scouting.

As for trench foot, I am to believe the slightly warmer weather has helped lessen the cases, but only by a few numbers. Many men have come in needing amputations or to take time to let the fungus heal. I believe the disease is similar to when you soak in a bath for too long and your fingers prune, but since there is hardly a way for their feet to fry, their pores never shrink and the bacterium in the mud take the chance to crawl their way inside the body, taking root into the limb and numbing it. Then continuing to cut off the circulation leaving a useless body part to dangle.

I am glad Florence will never get to experience these horrors of war. I shudder to think that she would never have been the same. Then again, I don't think I will either, but I have hope that I can at least return to a grumpy wife with a wonderful sense of humor and a voice that could rival gunfire. I actually think that gunfire is the one thing that reminds me of home, listening to her laugh. It may not seem like a compliment to some, but I miss it dearly.

It was her birthday a few days ago. I sent her a letter in hopes that it would get to her. Hopefully, our runners didn't get killed on the way back. I know it won't make up for it, not being there and the fight, but I hope it'll calm her nerves. She hasn't sent me anything, so stubborn. could rival a horse if she had the need to. Her steely gaze made men shudder in fear and tuck their tails behind them. This is reminding me of Shakespeare, his 130'th sonnet. I always admired that peice, because he wasn't trying to dis his woman through his passion, but told of all the ways she was imperfect and how it didn't matter. Because he would always think she was one of a kind and would revel in their love. She didn't need to be a goddess to win his affections.

Waging a war against bacteria,

George Cubbins

* * *

**A/N: so, I know I am lacking in contributing to the Lockwood and Co. Fandom, so I decided to upload this. I had originally wanted to just post all 12 pages of my project in one go and make it a one-shot, but as I read through it, I had so many time jumps and decided to make some more diary entries.**

**This was actually a project I had to do in school called In the Trenches. We had to write diary entries about WW2, adding in historical events and facts, as well as explaining illnesses, disease, and conditions in the trenches. At the time, I was re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-reading the first book (Like one does). I had to use a persona to create the story first, and all I could hear while I wrote was George Cubbins. This became the result and got me an A in each class. I don't know how with so many mistakes T.T. But I have edited them and will continue to do so.**

**Stay Tuned, and Thanks for Reading!**

**~Pheonix**


	2. Chapter 2

June 15, 1915

Every day is the same song and dance. More bodies, more blood, more explosions. I miss warm blankets and seven hours of straight sleep in the loudly quiet hum of London. I have written before that I was in Portsmouth, but it was for a business trip. Nothing more, nothing less. I was born and raised in London, as was Florence, and love the city in which I was birthed.

My work as a Practitioner in Medicine takes me to many different places, sometimes for months at a time. Because of this, I never really had time to make friends. Social relationships were impractical. I suppose you could say I was lonely, but I didn't think of it that way. Life was simple and I was content. Perhaps not happy, but happiness is not the pinnacle of life, being content is. It is the medium of being happy and being lonely, and it was in this state of being when I met Florence.

I was having a pint in Bristol at the time. There was a poor bloke I was taking care of, a nasty case of pox, and I was staying at an inn down the road. I guess you could say it was one of my lonely days, so in my head, I thought it was a good idea to have a nice stiff drink. The first hour there, nothing happened. The second hour, things were getting a bit wild. By the third hour, I had a headache over all the yelling going on behind me. So, naturally, I made to leave. I was about to do so when I saw a large straw hat enter the building and sit next to me at the bar.

She was covered in mud and rainwater, her hands grimy and filthy, but when she ordered her mug, her lips relieved teeth that were the most amazing shade of white. It was as if she had never eaten anything in her life. The bartender seemed to think nothing of her appearance, only smiling and supplying her, seemed as if she had been here before. I couldn't see her eyes, and I could barely see her hair, but her yellow goloshes stuck out like a sore thumb.

I wasn't the only one who noticed her. Not even five minutes into her drink did the retorts start in. I don't know why I found it irritating, maybe it was because I was five glasses in, perhaps it was because I had already found her appealing, or it was just me hating people, but I was beginning to boil over. They made remarks about everything about her. But the thing to absolutely set me off, was when they had said something about her teeth being rotten from days in the dirt. They couldn't see her teeth, how did they know what it looked like?

Now again, I was not in my right mind and was already hurting head-wise before all of this started. It did not help my case that it got worse quickly. So, like any drunk, I decided to throw something. I have been told in the past that I have terrible aim, and this was no such exception. However, it did have a rather pleasant outcome for me.

It's been four years, and since then, I have gone back a few times to that bar. There's still the same bartender running it. Every time I go in, He rallies the guys and tells them about that night, saying how it was the most hectic yet the funniest thing he had ever seen. The best stroke of luck.

Apparently, my mug had hit a picture frame above the guys head on the far side of the bar, whose back was turned to the guy preaching about the monstrosity that is now my current wife. The picture fell on the poor lad, and he immediately turned to face the preacher before going to clock him. The preacher had stepped to the left to prove a point, so Picture frame man went forward into a table that held an Irish couple on their honeymoon (why in Bristol, I have no clue) and turned it to splinters. The wife was the one who started yelling at him, the Irish man just kept complaining about his drink. Well the preacher never took notice, he just kept rambling on, but the picture man's buddy saw it all and threw his glass at me. I didn't notice it at the time, as I was already two feet out the door, but I didn't even have to look. The preacher got hit this time, finally, and his attention turned toward the table in the back. And like that, there was a brawl in a bar in Southwest England.

Florence caught me as I was leaving, asking me if I had a problem with the establishment. I assume she meant the reason I threw the cup, thinking it was because I was angry about bad service. I told her, and she will never let me forget this, "Ma'am, I have nothing against a nice bar, but misinformed idiots are terrible entertainment."

Wasn't the finest choice of words, but it was enough for her to be intrigued. She found me a few days later and asked to join me for coffee. We got to chatting and learned more about each other. A week later she was meeting me in London for lunch. A month flew by and she bought the empty flat next to mine in the tenement I was living in. Four months and I was holding the hands of an amazing woman. Two years of waiting and that woman became my wife.

It still remains to be my greatest achievement.

Writing this, it gets me thinking about the argument we had. So petty, so arbitrary, so many different words we could have said; but we said them, and here I am. Fighting a war. What I wouldn't give to kiss the back of her hand, sit on the couch beside her, and read a book aloud. I've tried reading to the men, but they don't find classics as enjoyable as I do.

Forever Florence's,

George Cubbins

* * *

September 23, 1915

I met a man around a week ago. Least I think it was a week ago, I may have doubled-up dates last Thursday… If I had done that before, however, it would have been last Wednesday… no matter. Onto the actual topic:

Anthony Lockwood is a bit younger then I, 26 this upcoming December, but the war and life has aged him. A few of his hairs are pigmented white in his side swept hair. He is another Englishman, like myself. A wounded soldier that was caught in a gas blast. As soon as he was found, alive and concussed, they rushed him to me after I had crossed into the new trench system. The acids had burnt off a bit of his skin and face but he was far away enough to escape with only that. The burns look similar to a splotchy mask across his face, like giant spots of ink that were splashed onto a sheet of paper and seeped into the fibres, never to come out again. I had to put a thick coat of gel on the burn before wrapping it. He will be blind for a few more days due to the gauze, but he will recover soon enough. Though even when he does recover, his eyes will sting for a while and he will always have scars marking his participation in the war.

When he woke from his sleep, instead of freaking out, like most, he simply asked for a doctor. I came, being assigned to this man, and I told him how he got to be in a "hospital bed". As I recounted how he managed to get into this situation, I studied his movements. His arms lay on his stomach and his head faced the ceiling. There was a bright smile on his face as I finished and he thanked me. I was taken aback by this act. Not because I didn't feel like I deserved a thank you- which needn't have been said anyways, It is my job after all- but because of his smile. It was so full of something that seemed as familiar as a warm bed yet currently as foreign as Asian writing.

The next day after had I examined him and went through a normal check-up, he asked me to recount to him the news. I paused a few seconds before inquiring as to why. He told me that it reminded him of simpler times when he got the paper every morning, eating toast and jam and drinking tea with his partner. I felt a bit sympathetic (not something a doctor is supposed to do normally, but there was a small exception). I told him about the Triple entente invading Serbia and of the British nurse, Edith, that was executed in Germany and charged days later with espionage. Throughout my ramblings,- and some personal opinion- he listened intently.

I have never really mingled with other people outside of my job, but talking with him was relaxing. I may just ask my superior if I can tend to him personally while he recovers. Not for weird things, certainly not, but to keep an eye on him and make sure he heals properly. Since his burns are not bad, he will be staying in the infirmary until he gets better and gets orders to move bases. Until then, I will continue to talk to this insightful man.

I have been asking Lockwood questions and debating with him whenever I find extra time. However, I was baffled to find out that he used to be the museum curator in London before he joined the war. He had never even participated before in the army, yet his broad shoulders and build were odd for someone who had never in their life picked up a gun. He told me it was due to all of his fencing practice with his partner. When I asked him about the man he fought with, he chuckled and responded with a smile on his face, "She is the toughest beauty in London and not to be taken lightly, Doctor." I was surprised that he spared with a lady, for she could easily be hurt, but the way his smile shined in this desolate place, I didn't dare say a thing about it. He made a remark saying that if she could have, his wife, Lucy, would have joined the cause too, fighting side by side with him.

To distract himself, he went into his tales as a soldier. Accounting every near miss and scratch. Lockwood has told me so many near-death stories about when he crossed No Man's Land and his narrow escapes that I am beginning to believe he was put on this earth to do something outside the war. He says its luck, but I don't believe that. I think it is a will to return. I envy him.

Having found an interesting man,

George Cubbins

* * *

**A/N: So, here is chapter two, so soon. Originally, I never touched on the relationship between Florence and George, but as I read my own AU, I found the perfect story that I wouldn't want to replace. Also, we met Lockwood! I didn't write much of him before either... BUT THAT WILL CHANGE HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH**

**I recently binged Gravity Falls again, don't judge me.**

**Stay Tuned and Thanks for Reading!**

**~Pheonix**


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